Amber and Blood - Margaret Weis [19]
“Why?” Rhys yawned again.
“Well, for one reason because nobody knows where Godshome is, or even if Godshome is. And for two reasons, if Godshome is anywhere, it’s close to Neraka, and that’s a bad place, a very bad place. And for three reasons, if Godshome is close to Neraka, that means it’s far from here—clear on the other side of the continent—and it would take us months, maybe years, to travel …”
Nightshade stopped. “Rhys? Rhys! Are you listening to my reasons?”
Rhys wasn’t. He sat with his back against the wall, his head slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest. He was asleep, fast asleep, so deeply asleep that the kender’s voice and even a couple of pokes on the arm could not wake him.
Nightshade sighed and then he stood up and walked over to the little girl and squatted down to stare at her closely. She certainly didn’t look like a god. She looked like a drowned rat. He felt again the overwhelming sadness that he had felt when he’d seen Mina, the grown-up Mina. He didn’t like that, and so he wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve and then glanced back surreptitiously at Rhys.
His friend was still asleep and would probably sleep for a good long time. Long enough for Nightshade to have a talk with this kid—whoever she was—and tell her that where she really wanted to go was the thriving metropolis of Goat’s Home and that she should travel there on her own, and she should leave now very quietly so as not to disturb Rhys.
“Hey, kid,” Nightshade whispered loudly, and he reached out his hand to shake her awake.
His hand hung, poised, in midair. His fingers started to tremble a little at the thought of actually touching her, and he snatched his hand back. He continued to squat there, gazing at Mina and chewing on his lip.
What did he see when he looked at her? What made her different in his sight from other mortals? What made her different from the dead he could see and talk to? What made her different from the undead? Nightshade looked intently at the child, and tears again flooded his eyes. He saw beauty, unimaginable beauty. Beauty that shamed the most radiant, glorious sunrise and made the glittering stars seem pale and plain in comparison. Her beauty made his very soul stand still in awe, for fear the slightest whisper might cause the wondrous sight to slip away from him. But it wasn’t her beauty that wrenched his heart and caused the tears to roll down his cheeks.
Her beauty was clothed in ugliness. She was smeared with blood, cloaked in the shroud of death and destruction. Evil, dread and horrible, was a pall over her.
“She is a god,” he said under his breath. “A god of light who’s done really horrible things. I’ve known it all along. I just didn’t know I knew it. That’s what made me feel all weepy inside.”
Nightshade didn’t think he could explain this to Rhys, because he wasn’t sure he could explain it to himself. He decided to talk it all over with Atta. He’d found that telling things to a dog was a lot easier than telling things to humans, mainly because Atta never asked questions.
But when he turned around to discuss Mina with Atta, he saw that the dog had rolled onto her side and was deep in slumber.
Nightshade slumped against the wall beside Rhys. The kender was sitting there, thinking mind-boggling thoughts, and listening to Rhys’s soft breathing, and the girl’s soft breathing, and Atta’s soft breathing, and the wind’s soft breathing, sighing over the sand dunes, and the waves coming to shore and leaving the shore and coming back to the shore and leaving the shore …
ightshade woke suddenly, jolted awake by Atta’s bark.
Atta was on her feet. Her legs were stiff, her hackles raised, and she was staring intently at the opening of the grotto. Nightshade could hear the sounds of crunching, as of heavy footfalls walking in their direction.
They were close and getting closer.
Atta gave another sharp, warning bark. Mina stirred at the sound and drew the cloth over her head and went back to sleep. The heavy crunching noise stopped. A shadow